


to fall down at your door

by fairytiger



Category: Emma (2020)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:08:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23540608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairytiger/pseuds/fairytiger
Summary: Of all the rooms in which to torture oneself--and there were a great many to choose from in the abbey--this one did nicely. Large enough to avoid a feeling of confinement, the carpet surprisingly comfortable.It was how Mr. Knightley could lay there for the better part of a day with only his heart in significant pain.
Relationships: George Knightley/Emma Woodhouse
Comments: 43
Kudos: 327





	to fall down at your door

**Author's Note:**

> if you told me that in the year of our lord 2020 i'd be writing multiple "EMMA." fics in the midst of a pandemic, i'd have laughed in your face. BUT HERE WE ARE.
> 
> thanks to auraispurple for literally everything

Of all the rooms in which to torture oneself--and there were a great many to choose from in the abbey--this one did nicely. Large enough to avoid a feeling of confinement, the carpet surprisingly comfortable.

It was how Mr. Knightley could lay there for the better part of a day with only his heart in significant pain.

He stared into the stoney faces in the surrounding portraits and wondered if the subjects had ever faced this kind of reckoning, this onslaught of new, unadulterated feeling. 

And it _was_ new; wasn’t it?

The feeling of her ungloved hand in his; that had been rare, if not entirely new. There must have been moments over the years--helping her from a carriage, perhaps, or the transfer of a niece or nephew from her arms to his--but never had it pierced him as it did as last night. Never had it been seared into the very fabric of his skin. 

One might say his palm was still hot to the touch, if one were the type to say such things.

He had affection for her, of course. It was always the lone survivor in the battles they waged, or perhaps what instigated them to begin with. As the frequency and volume of their quarrels increased over the years, so too had their regard for each other.

But in the relative quiet of the ballroom, when the noise and chatter had dimmed until only music remained, it was as if they were finally able to speak freely. As if something between them that had never been allowed to breathe took its first gulp of air.

Only now it threatened to suffocate him, to leave him gasping on this very comfortable carpet until he took his last breath.

_Here lies George Knightley: alone, foolish, and too late to do anything about it._

x

“You’re brooding.”

Mr. Knightley looked up to find Mrs. Reynolds at the door to his study. Her posture was that of someone under his employ, but her tone was a friendly reproach.

He returned to his book, certain that the third time reading this particular page would allow him to retain the content.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“You know my feelings on your partiality to walking, sir, so do consider the grievous pain it’s causing me to suggest you take it up again.”

“I’ve had neither opportunity nor reason.”

“With respect, sir, that has never impeded you in the past. But if you require a reason,” she said, pulling a letter from her apron. “This arrived from Hartfield.”

He commended himself on not leaping from his chair, instead retrieving the letter with what he hoped was casual indifference. 

It was from Mr. Woodhouse, and try as he might, Mr. Knightley could not account for why his heart sank at the sight of his old friend’s signature. 

The note was brief, inquiring into Mr. Knightley’s absence from Hartfield these past two evenings, and that if it were due to a health matter, they would be glad to receive him again when a doctor deemed him well enough to make the journey.

What in God’s name could he say in response?

_My sincerest apologies, Mr. Woodhouse, but I find myself consumed with thoughts of your daughter and must excuse myself until such thoughts have run their course. Might you be interested in a game of chess when they do?_

Instead he forged something about a land matter requiring his attention, adding a minor headache for good measure. It was not in his nature to lie so flagrantly, but knowing his words would reach Emma too, he did not trust himself to offer any hint of the truth.

Even signing the letter “with warmest regards” felt as though he’d dipped his quill in his heart, and Emma would read between every blot of ink. 

A small, woefully brave part of him hoped she might.

He handed the reply to his waiting housekeeper.

“Thank you, Mrs. Reynolds,” he said quietly, before returning to his place by the hearth.

There was a brief pause before her knowing voice came again.

“Shall I ready your coat then, sir?”

“No, thank you. I’m staying in this evening.”

Mr. Knightley returned to his book under the watchful eyes of Mrs. Reynolds, who eventually left with a world-weary sigh. 

x

It took another three days for Mr. Knightley to feel like himself again. Three days of work and riding, and when he finally took up walking in the evening again, it was with his back turned toward Hartfield. 

Three days, and he was certain he’d contrived the whole evening. Emma’s eyes were no different the night of the ball than they had been the day before, her breath quickening in time with his as they danced was merely from the warmth of the ballroom. 

The less said about running to her door with his hat and heart in his hands, the better. 

But he’d fully returned to his senses now, he was sure of that, and when an invitation arrived to a small gathering at the Weston’s, he was determined to prove it. 

He strode toward the estate feeling surer with every step. The spring sun was warm on his back, a promise of summer and new beginnings. His world, momentarily upended, was righted.

Until he saw her, and it spun madly off its axis once more.

Emma was attending to Harriet on the settee, elevating her ankle, fussing with pillows. He could not have been watching her long, but when Emma looked up and met his eyes, he felt caught. How many times had they met exactly this way? How many times had they greeted each other with warmth and familiarity? Sometimes they dispensed with pleasantries altogether, instead picking up from some previous conversation, a point they’d neglected to make or a long overdue rebuttal. 

But it was different now, irrevocably so he feared, as she excused herself from Harriet’s side. There was a nervous air about her as she approached, but surely it was just his imagination, the wild hammering in his chest making her hands appear to tremble as she smoothed the front of her dress.

“Mr. Knightley,” she said, assessing him without quite meeting his eyes. ”I see you’ve decided to rejoin society. I trust you’ve recovered from your...headache?”

He smiled a little.

“Fully recovered, thank you.”

“My father will be pleased to hear it. As am I. Naturally.”

Her words were stilted, as if she’d carefully chosen each one. There was an awkward beat before he settled his gaze on Harriet. 

“And how is our patient?”

“Sore, but her spirit has suffered no injury.” Emma glanced back, then turned to him, lowering her voice. “I suspect she can walk on it more than she lets on.”

“Ah,” he whispered conspiratorially. ”Does Perry agree?”

“Sadly, he has not called for my opinion.”

“Perhaps he should. If he only made calls to Hartfield for legitimate reasons, he would find himself with much more free time.”

“Perish the thought.”

They laughed together then, warm and real, and Mr. Knightley was overwhelmed with gratitude for it. Whatever this was, it could be overcome. They were, and could remain, friends. 

And that's what he wanted, of course. 

“I never thanked you for your assistance that morning,” she said, glancing up at him. “We were most fortunate to have you there.”

He wanted to respond in kind. He wanted to assure her that the fortune was entirely his. 

Cowardice took hold instead, and he smiled bitterly.

“But we must not forget Mr. Churchill’s assistance.” 

Emma’s face fell, the good humour they’d so tenuously forged gone.

“Indeed.”

How he wished he could take the words back. Mr. Churchill wasn’t even here, for God’s sake, but ugly jealousy conjured the spectre of him anyway.

But before Mr. Knightley could recount his words, Mrs. Weston called them to cards, where he played miserably and made for even more miserable company. Mrs. Elton’s prattling on about a tour of Donwell soured his mood further, and it was her insistence on assembling the party that finally did him in.

“There is but one married woman in the world whom I can ever allow to invite what guests she pleases to Donwell.”

Mrs. Elton sniffed.

“Mrs. Weston, I suppose.”

“No, Mrs. Knightley; and, till she is in being, I will manage such matters myself.”

It took a great deal of effort not to look upon Emma after he spoke such pointed words, and a great deal more when he felt her eyes upon him.

x

It was nearly dusk when their party retired. Mr. Knightley helped Harriet into the Woodhouse’s carriage, Emma close behind.

But before she could step inside, he gently clasped her fingers with his own. At the touch, her eyes darted to his warily.

“Tell your father,” he began, then cleared his throat. There was a tremor in his voice he had not anticipated. “I shall call on him tomorrow.”

Emma watched him carefully before she spoke.

“Only my father?”

There it was, the same look he’d seen at the ball, the same imploring, pleading eyes when they’d met breathless in her courtyard. In that moment, the nameless thing he’d been fighting all week suddenly had one.

 _Love_.

It knocked the wind out of him, the undeniable force of it. He thought time away had done him some good, but he’d simply been marking time. Avoiding the plain truth that was now in front of him, the one he’d seen coming the moment she asked him to dance.

The moment she asked him to ask _her_ to dance. And that was Emma, wasn’t it? Leading him to the cliff’s edge of what she wanted without being the one to actually jump. She looked as though she were asking him to jump now, her hand held tightly in his.

But he didn't. Not yet.

“Your father,” he repeated, then with a mock bow, “And the lady of the house, if I am welcome.”

Her mouth pressed into a line as it always did when she fought a smile. 

“You need not ask.”

The carriage took her away, as it had the morning after the ball, but gone was the need to chase after her. Urgent desperation had given way to quiet yearning, but he could not-- _would_ not act upon it until his head was as clear as his heart. 

When that day came, he would not run to her door; he would simply walk.

x

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr @ alonereed :)


End file.
